I became furious with myself—for almost three years, I let him play such an important part of my life while I hardly meant the same to him. And who knows how he actually felt? I know I can’t speak for him, but I think we wanted to love each other if only for the sheer romance of it. I saw us as a tragic love affair, something that could never be because of some recurring problem: the distance, the pressure, the numerous other girls and reasons and excuses. Like a fool, I let my own imagination run wild and somehow convinced myself that one day, we would be happy together. I can only blame myself for continuing to believe that delusion.

Talking to friends on the phone now is different. They let me cry, and laugh, and curse like a madwoman, because they hope it really is the last time. They have spent the past three years giving lackluster warnings, so I can tell that they are extremely happy that I have finally come to this realization on my own. They are fascinated, however, by the abruptness:

“Just like that? It’s finally over?”

I laugh through hot tears of embarrassment. “Just like that. I can’t believe I let it go on for so long. Why didn’t you tell me how stupid I was being?”

“Love is blind, girl. Love is blind.”

I can sense skepticism in their voices, which I will admit is justified. In some ways, I can’t believe it’s over either. But the moment I saw him at the airport, I felt a sharp hurt that had been built up from residual…something. It was a pang I had always mistaken for love—a heart-wrenching kind of love. In that moment, I realized that it hadn’t been love at all, but fear. A quick alarm of trepidation that triggered all of the jealousy, the anger, the insecurity. As he leaned in to kiss me, I felt his sense of entitlement to me. Leading up to the visit, I envisioned myself as having some power, or at least an equal hold on the relationship. But here, being in the same space as him, I recognized the feeling as being—not loved, but owned.

Other tell-tale signs popped up here and there over the weekend we spent together. Although he showed he cared about me in small ways, it was clear that the weekend was not about what I wanted. He called the shots, and failed to carry out most of the promises he had made to me over the summer. I will give him the benefit of the doubt and say that I don’t think he meant to make me feel so powerless, but nothing can make me go back to being so blindly in love with him.

I’m twenty-two years old. I may be too young to know what love is, but I can be sure of what it is not.